A poem a day until my fortieth birthday.

44 -Rubbish

Poem number 44
.Rubbish
.
They don’t put bins at stations
‘Cause the I.R.A. were gits
And filled the bins with Semtex
And blew passengers to bits
So now I have a wrapper
That I’d like to throw away
But I can’t. And it’s all sticky.
Double damn you, I.R.A.!